


Because I Knew You

by JDHD



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, Established Relationship, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, M/M, Memory Loss, Relationship Reveal, Secret Relationship, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 12:52:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17488379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDHD/pseuds/JDHD
Summary: Months after the snap, through days and nights of working and mourning and training, it's hard to remember the finer details. It's hard to remember anything tangible. But when it's clear the slipping memories are more than just sleep deprivation, the sinking fear of losing family and loved ones becomes all too real.Or, one by one each person lost in the snap disappears from everyone's memory, and each Avenger has to grapple to hold on.//Basically I heard this theory that they're gonna start forgetting the others and thought "hey I'm gonna torture myself" and wrote this, so, enjoy.





	Because I Knew You

**Author's Note:**

> I'm more just focusing on Steve and Tony in this (no stony), so uh.... Yeah Rocket is just sorta Not There.
> 
> Also I did write this after the Endgame trailer but uh fuck that Tony is in Wakanda and he has lots of food, drink and oxygen.
> 
> Sort of? Warning? Slight suicidal undertones due to just very extreme anguish. Yeah.

It was months later when it began, months after the disappearance of half of all life, months after the fallout of those who hadn't dusted had began, months after society had fallen into hell and had built itself back up, though weak, and broken.

Tony and Bruce had been working in the Wakandan lab for days on end, hardly getting any sleep, hardly speaking a word to anyone else. If Pepper was lucky, she could coach the boys out. If Rhodey was persistent enough, he could get the men to eat.

Though they hated it more than any of them could ever admit, when they weren't training or trying to come up with more and more obscure plans, the others had nothing to do. They would sit and stare, they would confine themselves to their rooms, they would try not to sob.

"What was Sam's last name?" Clint asked one day, before he dropped a cup, its glass shards splintering the air and tracing across the tiles.

Steve gave him a stern look, and was about to answer, but the word got caught in his throat.

It was there. It was like he could reach out, and grab it. It was there. It was on the tip of his tongue. But he couldn't find it. The name evaded him, and his eyes widened.

"I can't- what is it?" Steve whispered, raising a hand into his hair, looking up only to see the same haunted expression on Clint's face. The shattering seemed to sully his brain, play on and on in his head.

The palace had an endless array of rooms, above and underground, a seemingly impossible labyrinth. They stayed close to one another. The East wing kitchen was where the glass was dropped, and where Natasha and Bruce were looking up at the two men, who couldn't tear their eyes away from it.

"Wilson," Natasha finally said, almost under her breath. "His name is Sam Wilson. Don't forget him."

Steve let out a large breath, and Clint began nodding, some colour returning to his face. "Right. Yeah- yeah, sorry. I just... We haven't had coffee yet," Steve said, waving it off for a moment.

He felt sick.

It was small things, after that. Nothing you wouldn't expect. The colour of his visor, whether or not he had facial hair, Sam's favourite food. It was things they began prompting one another on, at least, those who knew Sam. It was to be expected. They hadn't seen him in months, things slipped away.

They almost didn't notice when it happened. It was so unexpected. It was so... Sudden, and went under the radar. They weren't looking for it, so when it happened, it happened.

Different people lost him on different days. Tony briefly remembered furrowing his brow at a pair of razor-wings in the lab, assuming it was something that Princess Shuri had been working on months before, but Tony and Bruce had been too wrapped up in their work to notice. Perhaps if he'd mentioned it, his memory would have been prompted. Maybe he wouldn't have lost Sam.

They realised a week after he was truly gone. It was in another planning session, sat around a conference table, with tired, dark eyes, and grey bags under eyes, and faces which were left scruffy and unwashed.

"Next point of business is-"

Everyone was silenced.

"Is that a Wakandan?"

The man in the photograph was clad in armour, a red visor, wings out at his sides. He looked tall, a small smirk on his face, proud. He was stood next to Steve, in his Captain America gear, who was rolling his eyes.

"FRIDAY, when is this photo from?" Tony asked, eyes on the picture.

"2015, sir."

Steve stared, and clenched his fists.

"Do you not- don't you know him?" Bruce asked, eyes wide. "Who is he? You must know him."

"I can't-" Steve's voice was trembling as he looked at the man. But there was nothing there. No name popped up, no words to describe him. He didn't even look like a person, it wasn't like seeing a stranger, it was like seeing a smudge. Gone. Nothing. He couldn't connect a word of what he saw of that man to anything he could understand. "I don't know who he is."

"FRI, who is he?" Tony demanded, looked over at Steve, who was trembling.

"Running facial recognition across all leftover viable databases, I have no matches of identity. However, there are several other photographs of this man in my database, and-"

FRIDAY's voice cut off, and the image on the holographic screen stuttered, disappearing for a second.

Everyone in the room was holding their breath, apart from Tony. "FRI? FRI! Wake up, girl, c'mon! I told you she wasn't compatible here, it's gotta be something to-"

The picture appeared again. There was just static over the man, like the hologram had been grabbed, and scraped clean of him. Captain America still stood there, proud. The wings were still in view.

"Oh my God," Steve whispered.

"Was he one of us?" Clint was looking around, desperately at the others. "He- no, no, he can't be. What the fuck happened to that picture? Where the fuck is he? Tony, something must be wrong with FRIDAY, or, or- no, we-"

"There are wings like that in the lab," Bruce said, his voice weak, and low. "He- he was one of us, wasn't he?"

Nobody spoke.

Steve wiped his face. "Why can't we remember him?"

"Thanos didn't just kill them," Natasha said, and all heads turned to her. "He wiped them out. Everything."

Life became frantic. Steve hardly saw Tony and Bruce, in fact, he hardly saw anyone. When he did, he saw them writing names, and facts, and sketching things down in books, on appendages, on the walls, anywhere. Thor sat with Bruce, patiently, as they watched old CCTV footage of Wanda in action, or in the common spaces of the compound, and of Shuri working in the lab. Bruce would recite facts about his friends. Other than that, he would be in the lab with Tony.

Steve wasn't entirely sure who Tony lost. Spider-Man, Rhodey had told him, but Steve wasn't sure who Spider-Man was, to Tony or to anyone.

He didn't see Tony. Tony stayed in the labs. Natasha stayed in the gym, fighting, shouting. She watched videos of Clint's family with him, holding his hand, nightly. They would repeat their names, over and over, in a mantra. It meant the small things were harder to forget. It was working.

Steve stayed in his room, and drew. Every single day, a new picture. Profiles, fronts, full bodies, pouring over every detail, forgetting to eat or sleep or work. He named every single picture, James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. Each A4 page went in a stack in the drawer under his bed. He never looked at them, because if he did, he wouldn't be drawing from memory, and things would start to corrupt.

It was working well. They were a month in, after the Sam incident, and nobody had been forgotten. No smudges were found in photos, no gaps in memories, no forgotten faces.

"Thor?" Steve said, surprised to see the man outside, of all places, at 6pm. The taller man turned to him, and gave a smile of greeting. Of course, less bright than they had used to be, with no accompanying laugh, or hug, or clap on the back.

"Captain Rogers, I see you are taking in the beauty of this wonderful country," Thor said, his smile widening slightly as he looked out over the palace gardens, golden in the light of the setting sun. "This place has so many wonders, I sometimes ask myself why I don't indulge more."

Steve chuckled lightly, and went to stand beside his friend. "It is stunning. I'm only surprised because you and Banner are usually watching footage at this time."

Thor turned his head to face him, and he snorted. "What do you mean?"

Steve furrowed his brow, and looked up at the god. "I- you watch CCTV footage. I'm... I'm sure of it."

"Why would I..."

The realisation dawned on them at the same time, and they turned on their heels, running back towards the building. They crashed into the common room only five minutes later, and yelled at FRIDAY to call everyone in, immediately.

"Why? What's going on?" Bruce asked, rubbing his eyes as he sat up on the couch. He was wearing an oversized hoodie, one of Thor's, Steve presumed. He looked like he had finally been taking a well-needed nap.

"Thor and Bruce are usually watching CCTV at 6pm," Steve shouted, his words strung together, urgent, frantic. "Right?"

Natasha stared at Steve, brows furrowed, lips slightly parted. "Do they? I... Oh fuck, they do."

"No we don't," Bruce said, quietly. He looked up at Thor. "No, no, we don't. Thor, we don't. We don't do that. We- we go on walks or, we- I'll be in the lab and- I..."

"We're doing a role call," Rhodey announced as he strode into the room, Pepper and Tony at his side. "FRIDAY, give us the number."

They had told FRIDAY to keep a number, that number was ten. Those were how many they had lost, including the man they forgot.

"Peter, T'Challa, Shuri," Tony started.

"Laura, Cooper, Lila, Nathaniel."

"Bucky," Steve continued, and the others nodded together.

"That's eight, and the guy we already..." Bruce cut himself off, and his face fell. "Who's missing?"

Blank stares met blank stares. Nobody had a clue.

"But we were doing okay," Bruce whispered, beginning to shake. "We were fucking remembering!"

Steve looked up, and over to Tony, whose face was dark.

"We're all going to forget."

Tony met his eye, and steeled his gaze. "Don't, Cap."

Laura, Cooper, Lila and Nathaniel were gone within the week. Clint laid against the couch, at Natasha's feet, sobbing. And he didn't know why. After extensive digging, for hours and hours, Tony sat down beside Clint, and told him that, according to the lock-down SHIELD database, Clint was married, and had three children. Clint cried harder.

When it got down to four, Peter, T'Challa, Shuri, and Bucky, they stayed close. Every day they would band together, recite everything they could about them. No matter how little it was.

"We know... We know we can keep information," Tony said, delicately. He was running on coffee and anxiety medication, and Steve suspected some drugs or other. He wouldn't ask. He wouldn't judge. "We can keep tangible information, on database. We can't keep their name, we can't keep their faces, and once they're gone, we can't keep any pictures of them, or any record of their name. Physical or digital. Maybe if we record our memories, we can spark them afterwards."

They went around, one at a time. Recalling memory after memory of each person. For T'Challa, and Shuri, it was sadly sparse. Okoye was doing her own recording, privately, so she could go through absolutely everything about the two she had lost, which the others knew so little about.

"Okay." Tony clicked his fingers, and the log for Shuri ended. He cleared his throat, and looked up across the table, at Clint. "Does anyone need a break before we continue?"

"No," came the resounding answer. But none of them wanted to continue.

Tony swallowed. "Okay. Begin log, Peter Benjamin Parker. Stark's loss."

With shaky breaths, each Avenger went around, and shared their little knowledge of the Spider-Man. Steve talked about dropping the container on him, marveling at how the kid had held it up, rather than being crushed. How he felt a weird sense of pride, even if they were on opposing sides.

Rhodey and Pepper talked about seeing the boy after school in the two years between him becoming the Spider-Man, and the events of his 'demise'.

"I remember when I came back to the penthouse," Rhodey said in a hoarse, tired voice, "and all the lights were dim, and it was warm, and I could smell burnt chocolate and takeout. The Bee Movie was playing on the TV, so I guessed Peter was there. I walked over to the couch and- Peter and Tony were curled up together, wrapped up in a blanket, fast asleep."

Steve watched as the tears rolled down Tony's cheeks, and he bowed his head, obviously trying to control the pain.

"The kid had his head resting on Tony's chest and I just couldn't help but think that no matter how many times this guy said he wouldn't be a dad... He..."

Rhodey cut off, seeing how Tony was shaking, and leaned over to wrap an arm around him as he let out a sob. Pepper did the same on his other side. Steve looked at the others, who looked as shocked as he felt. This 'tender' side of Tony which they were so sure was real was apparently already there, out in the open. They just weren't the right people. They just weren't there at the right time.

Tony left to do his recording, swiftly after. It was too long, and too personal, to do in front of the others. And they understood.

An hour later, a very disheveled and red-eyed Tony Stark returned. He sat down, with a thump, and looked to Steve. "Begin log: James Buchanan Barnes. Roger's loss. Stark's account. This man killed my parents. He was friends with them, close friends with my father, and he murdered them both. This information was kept from me by Steve. I fought with him..."

Steve bit his tongue as he listened to Tony talk about how he fought Bucky, about the airport, about how he hated him, about how it was his fault that the Avengers had split. Steve didn't speak up. About his fight, where Steve and Bucky had left Tony almost for dead. If they hadn't just done Peter's log, and Steve didn't see how utterly broken Tony was, he might have attacked the man.

When Tony was done, he finally looked away from Steve. Clint glanced from one man to the other, and reluctantly began.

One by one, they gave their small bits of information about Bucky. About fighting him, learning about him in school. All followed the same lines. Natasha spoke about the Soldier stabbing her, and Steve looked down at the table. She spoke about seeing him and Steve in their fights. She spoke about the bridge, about seeing how easily the Soldier had attacked Steve, but had missed several chances to kill him. She spoke about how distraught Steve was when they searched for him. She didn't know the half of it.

They finished with Thor, who only knew that Bucky and Steve were close, that when Bucky had dusted, he had called out to Steve, and only to Steve. That Steve had touched the dust, rubbed it between his fingers. That Thor could almost feel the pain rippling through him.

It was a solemn evening.

"Can't imagine that'll be the hardest one to lose, hmm?" Tony piped up, clearly trying to hold back the sob in his throat.

"Tony," Pepper tried, quietly, but he wasn't having it.

"How fucking poetic is that, huh? He couldn't remember you, so now, you won't remember him. Perfect circle. I feel so sorry for you. Meanwhile, Clint's lost his family, we've all lost our friends, I'm losing- I... Peter, and you... Tell you what, I'll be glad to have him gone. Forget how they died, huh? Forget how I'm not your friend and-"

"Enough, Stark!" Natasha snapped, slamming her fist on the table.

Steve held himself back. No matter how badly he wanted to strangle Tony, he held back. He blinked back the tears.

"Roger's account. I met Bucky when I was seven years old..."

Afterwards, Steve went back to his room, feeling hollow, and tired. Everyone left the conference room one by one, stricken, unsure of what to say.

Tony stayed the longest, staring at the centre of the table, lips slightly parted. He felt sick.

Shuri went the next day. They listened to their logs, and Bruce buried his face in Thor's shoulder. Okoye stood in the corner of the room, stoic, hardened, poised. Tears still rolled down her cheeks.

T'Challa went two days after.

Steve didn't leave his room after that. He drew, he never, ever stopped drawing. He drew with everything he could find, until his pencils were too-far gone or his pens out of ink or his fingers bleeding or his body cramped from the position. He drew until he'd filled the second drawer. He never forgot a detail, he was sure of it. But, because he wasn't looking back, he failed to see that 'James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky.' had become "James. Bucky.'

It was two weeks later when Steve had to help the others drag Tony out of the lab as he wracked his lungs, screaming that it wasn't true, that he would remember, that he couldn't forget. Screaming that he was sorry. Screaming for someone to kill him, for someone to let him die. Over and over, kill me, kill me, please oh God, kill me.

Over the walls in red paint, in scorch marks, over the windows and floors and on every surface, were different phrases.

DON'T FORGET HIM.

HE IS YOUR SON, TONY.

DON'T FORGET THE KID.

SAVE THE KID.

DO IT FOR THE KID.

DO IT FOR YOUR SON.

REMEMBER YOUR SON.

TONY, REMEMBER YOUR SON.

There were holes, in places, and scorch marks. Parts where the walls looked warped. Steve guessed that was where Tony's son's name was. He tried to hold back his sobs as he helped the others haul the distraught father out.

Tony was kept on 24 hour watch, and the entire palace had been swept for any traces of alcohol or drugs so as to keep it far, far away. He laid in his bed for hours on end, sometimes alone, sometimes with Rhodey, or Pepper, or both with him.

After three days, they all listened to the logs. Tony's son was seventeen when the snap occurred. He was a hero. He went in Tony's arms.

"Did it bring anything back?" Steve asked Tony, afterwards.

The other man shook his head. He no longer looked sad. He no longer looked human. He looked like a shell.

"No."

They were down to one, and it was Bucky. Apart from for Steve, there was no more frantic need to remember. They had all forgotten. There was no need for them to hold on, there was no way for them to. Steve stayed in his room, and nobody tried to remove him. Because they knew what was going to happen, eventually. And he needed hope.

He drew, and drew, and drew, and drew. Sometimes Steve wasn't even sure he was using his own hand. Sometimes he wasn't sure if it was day or night, because his windows were sealed and covered and he had been in the artificial light of his room for so long. The blood and callouses covering Steve's right hand looked completely normal, like they'd always been there. He wasn't sure he'd ever drawn anything else, in his entire life.

It must have been three weeks since Tony's son, when Steve couldn't carry on. When he touched his pencil to the paper, having just put another finished drawing with the others, and nothing happened. He couldn't move his hand. His head wouldn't work, and no images came, no name came. Nothing.

"No, no, c'mon," Steve whispered. It was early. That was it. It was early, or late, and he'd been drawing for hours, and he was just tired. "Who are you?"

He surged over to the drawer, and pulled out a picture of a man. Bucky.

"Who are you?" Steve sobbed. "Bucky, Bucky, oh fuck, no."

He grabbed as many sheets in his arms as he could and rushed out, calling for the others. Only Tony, Bruce and Natasha were in the common room. He dropped the stack on the ground, and they slid out on the floor, hundreds of drawings over the wood, each as detailed as the last.

"I can't-" Steve gasped, falling to his knees. "I don't know who he is. Tony- Tony, please I don't... Who is he? I can't... I was going to draw him and I don't even know who Bucky is."

Tony gave Steve such a graven look.

"I'm so sorry."

The tears fell before Steve could catch himself, and he looked down to see a spot of white in the middle of one picture, beginning to spread out, like an ink blot. "NO!" he screamed, grabbing at it, staring hard as the page spread over- white. Blank.

"No! No, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, his name is Bucky, his name is Bucky his name is Bucky his name is Bucky his name is Bucky."

A minute later, every photo was white, and Steve was gripping sheets to his chest, in a heap on the floor, panting and sobbing.

"His name is..."

And it was there. It was on the tip of his tongue. It was just fucking there.

"What was his name?" Steve's voice came out like a wisp of smoke through a crack.

They listened to the log a few hours later, all together, now accustomed to it. Not many knew the person who had gone, and not many were sure as to why Steve had cared about him. He seemed to be a psycho, a murderer, but when it got to Natasha - a brainwashed assassin with no memory of his life. A weapon. A victim.

"Roger's account," came the last one, and Steve took in a deep breath as he, and the others, listened.

"I met ----- when I was seven years old. He was a year older than me, born at the start of semester in September, when I was born in July. He was taller, but that wasn't all that hard, for me. He said he liked my drawing, and I said thanks. He smiled, and went off to play soccer. We didn't talk much after that, we weren't in the same class. Two boys were picking on me, a few weeks later. Calling me small. Calling me weak. ----- hit one of them, and told them to pick on someone his own size. For once, I felt kinda safe. Even if I told him I could've fought them off alone."

They listened, idly, to the story of their friendship. The two were close. Small bits about bullying, and the other boy being Steve's only friend.

Steve knew himself. He suspected his relationship with this guy was more than platonic.

"I was fifteen when I told him I was queer," the recording said, and Steve wiped his face with a sigh. He knew it. The others didn't, and Tony regarded him with a slightly confused look. "I told him how scared I was. That I didn't want it. That I knew it was wrong, and I needed to find some way to stop it. ----- put his hand on my shoulder, pulled me closer, and kissed me. He told me nothing that made two people that happy could be wrong. I believed him."

He listened as his life was recited to him, and rested his face in his hands as he heard about the train, and found himself truly understanding why he'd crashed the Valkyrie. The other Steve - the one who remembered - he knew. He knew he had had nothing to live for.

He listened to how he'd mourned this man, he listened to how he'd found him again, in the cruelest twists of fate. They listened to Steve quietly tell them all that nothing mattered to him more than this man, that's why he had to fight. That's why they had had to go to war. Tony put his hand on Steve's shoulder, silently. A sign of understanding.

He listened to how this man made him human, how when he was back, Steve was there. The difference between Captain America and Steve Rogers was that man. And Steve didn't even know his name.

He listened, and knew that he had drawn him every day. The promise that he'd never forget. The promise he'd forgotten.

Steve remembered how hard it had been, when they'd found out they'd lost the first person. The man with the wings. That felt like decades ago.

The log ended, and the room was left with a very pregnant silence.

"We," Tony started, before taking in a deep breath, "are going to pick ourselves up, train the fuck up, go to a different dimension if we fucking have to, and we are going to kill that big purple fuck. We're getting our family back."

Steve nodded into his hands, and breathed in, quickly, through his teeth.

He would get him back.

Whoever he was.


End file.
